


I'm only human (I bleed when I fall down)

by tobeconvincedoflove



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Child Abuse, Enjolras's dad is a bag of dicks, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Learning Disabilities, The Blanket, also baby revolutionaries, and handle enjonlras, basically they're the epitome of bffs, so much platonic Enjolras/Combeferre/Courfeyrac, this is my first fic please don't kill me it's probably completely OOC, this is unbetaed and im really bad at grammar, vulnerable enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 17:26:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1274866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobeconvincedoflove/pseuds/tobeconvincedoflove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or the three times Combeferre saw The Blanket and knew something was horribly wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm only human (I bleed when I fall down)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Les Mis fic (and my first one posted on this site). I really love vulnerable!Enjolras, but I definitely butchured it with this one. Also the title comes from the song Human by Christina Perri. Any references to pop culture are italicized.

_one._  
The first time Combeferre met Enjolras, he also met ‘The Blanket’. In his defense, he was five at the time, and it seemed like a perfectly logical name. Looking back on it, Combeferre realized he met The Blanket first, because little six-year-old Enjolras was buried somewhere under it. This fact was understandable, though, because of the circumstances. 

“I’m going to go have grown-up talk with Enjolras’s dad, okay?” his mother had asked softly, bending down so her soft brown eyes, which were red-rimmed and watery, were looking straight into Combeferre’s. “Go in there with Julien, okay?” Combeferre only nodded, swallowing the urge to cry at the sight of his mum crying. The only thing he knew was that his mother and this Julien’s mother were friends, and that something had happened to Julien’s mother. Something that made them all sad. So he did as she asked, though he wished his mum would tell him what was going on. He was seven; he wasn’t a little kid anymore.

It turned out the room he had been directed to was the boy’s bedroom, and it would have been completely quiet had it not been for the quiet sniffling coming from a mound of blanket in the middle of the floor. As Combeferre approached, he noticed that a bit of curly blond hair was visible at the top of the blanket, and he sat down cross-legged next it.

“I’m Antoine Combeferre, but most people just call me Combeferre,” Combeferre said amiably, hoping to coax the kid into at least visibility. “I’m seven.” 

“Julien. But I pref’r Enjolras,” a voice replied thickly, struggling to form complete words around its tears. “And ‘m six.” However, the boy did not show his face, and Combeferre did not want to spend hours sitting silently next to a blanket. “Why are you here?” Julien— _Enjolras_ , Combeferre reminded himself—asked suddenly, his voice clear and hard. 

“My mother knows your mother. But I think she’s talking to your father right now.” Combeferre made sure his voice was calm, because he didn’t know what happened, but it was something bad if it reduced someone to the state Enjolras was in. No one deserved to be this sad, he thought. 

“Well she can’t talk to my mum anymore,” Enjolras murmured, and his head emerged from the blanket. Apart from the impossibly messy mop of curls, Enjolras had bright blue eyes that stood out on his face, even when they were red and puffy, like they were. “She’s dead. That’s why you’re here; she’s helping Father plan the funeral.” 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t-“ he began to apologize, but one look from Enjolras cut him off.

“There’s nothing you could have done. She’s been sick s’long as I can rem-em-ber,” he replied, looking down as he sounded out the large word. 

“Well, they are going to be talking for a while. Do you mind if I read one of your books?” Combeferre asked, trying to change the subject. When Enjolras nodded, he stood up to look at the boy’s bookshelf, before his manners caught up with him. “Do you want me to grab you one?” 

“Doesn’t matter. I can’t read well,” he explained, his face reddening as if he was embarrassed. “Father said I’m dys-lex… dyslex…” Enjolras couldn’t figure out how to say the word.

“Dyslexic?” Combeferre suggested, (he had heard the word because one of his classmates was dyslexic, too) and Enjolras nodded. “It’s okay. I can read out loud if you want?” The smile on the other boy’s face let him know that he said the right thing. 

“Here,” Enjolras said, unfurling himself from The Blanket, and the size of it proved Combeferre’s theory that it was made for an adult. “I can share.” 

“It is big,” Combeferre pointed out mildly, before grabbing the first _Harry Potter_ book off of the shelf and returning to the other boy. 

“That’s ‘cause it was mum’s.” The six-year-old’s voice was quiet, and not knowing quite how to respond, Combeferre just sat down next to Enjolras and began reading. When his mother came in hours later, he was still reading, though now quietly as Enjolras was sleeping, his fist clutching The Blanket.

_two._

Combeferre was now sixteen, Enjolras was fifteen, and (in his opinion), a lot had changed. For starters, he hadn’t seen his (now) best friend cry since the day they met, Courfeyrac now completed their trio, and everything had completely fallen apart. It had started simply enough; Enjolras’s dyslexia got worse along with his discovered ADHD and ADD, and his father wasn’t happy. Up until five months ago (before he disappeared), Enjolras showed up more and more often at Combeferre’s door at ungodly hours as his father’s discipline slowly slipped from lectures to yelling to beatings. On really bad nights, The Blanket came out again, and Combeferre would put August Rush into the DVD player (a movie Courfeyrac discovered had an oddly calming effect on their friend) and stay awake with him under The Blanket until he finally stopped fighting sleep. 

In the morning, Enjolras would pretend like nothing happened, folding The Blanket and giving it to Combeferre for safe-keeping again, and Courfeyrac would help him with his homework until Enjolras had to go home again. On some level, Combeferre knew his parents didn’t miss the way Enjolras winced on the bad nights, but Enjolras insisted that it wasn’t abuse, that it was discipline. If he would stop acting out in class, if he could just fucking read, if he didn’t take so long with his homework, it would be different. One glance at Courfeyrac let Combeferre know it wasn’t just him who disagreed with Enjolras. But Enjolras wasn’t the type to be either coddled or argued with regarding his father, so Combeferre would just push his glasses back up his nose and try to ignore the anger swirling in his stomach. 

“I’m fucking terrified,” Courfeyrac said one afternoon over their pre-calculus homework, out of nowhere. “Please tell me you don’t believe the bullshit his father said about sending Enjolras to a special school. We haven’t gotten a reply from him in _months_ , Combeferre.” With tired eyes, Courfeyrac just ran his hand through his already messy hair, before looking back down at the trigometric identities he was apparently establishing. 

“I’m pretty damn scared, too,” Combeferre said, taking the pencil out of his mouth and putting down his calculator. “I don’t know what to do, though. We’ve waited too long, and I don’t think the police will believe us anyway.” 

“We’re not just going to leave him. You saw all of the bruises, and if it was bad enough for _Enjolras_ to run away from it, it had to be bad.” Courfeyrac’s reasoning struck a chord of truth within Combeferre—if there was one thing he was sure of with Enjolras, it was his chronic inability to ask for help. In fact, the only times Combeferre was completely sure Enjolras needed help were when he had that damn blanket out, and that scared him. 

“We’ve tried. My parents have been in contact with the police for a while now,” Combeferre admitted, but it was in that moment that his parents walked into the room. His mum’s eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, and Courfeyrac recognized his dad’s expression (as he had seen it on Combeferre before). It meant that he was on the verge of exploding in anger, but recognized the need to be calm. (in his head, Courfeyrac called it the Combeferrian Stone Face)

“We’ve got to go to the hospital,” the deep voice of Combeferre’s father said quietly. 

“What happened? Is it about-“ Combeferre immediately asked, but shut up quickly at the look from his father. 

“The police finally had the guts to get a warrant for Enjolras’s father, and what they found wasn’t good.” The voice of his mother was shaky, and Courfeyrac realized she was crying again. 

“What was it?” Courfeyrac’s voice came out as a croak, and his hands were shaking out of fear. The worst possible scenarios were playing through his mind, and based on the lack of color in Combeferre’s dark face, it was obvious he was, too. 

“He never sent Enjolras to the school. He kept him locked up in the basement; didn’t feed him, hit him.” Combeferre had never heard his father’s voice that dangerously angry, and despite himself, he felt a few tears stream down his face. 

“What do you mean he didn’t feed him?” was the only thing Courfeyrac could say. Enjolras had always been very much on the thin side, and his BMI couldn’t afford to drop much. 

“The bastard kept a calendar of how often he needed to feed him to keep him alive. In the entire five months, Enjolras got food six times,” the father explained, and silence fell in the kitchen. Until Combeferre felt the anger reach a boiling point.

“Dammit!” he yelled, his fists hitting the table. “We should have done something before it got to this before…” but he lost the ability to even form full sentences. Hesitantly, Courfeyrac wrapped his arms around his friend, and both felt how badly the other was shaking.

“Enjolras is in the hospital now. There’s a lot of complications that could arise from being starved for that long, and he had thirteen cracked ribs, but right now he’s stable,” his mother felt the need to explain, watching as the two boys gripped each other in the hug like the other was a lifeline. 

“Can we see him?” Courfeyrac asked immediately, as Combeferre suddenly bolted up the stairs, as if to grab something he needed. 

“Only two people can be in there at a time, and probably only adults right now, but eventually you will be able to,” Combeferre’s father reassured the boy, who was now looking up the stairs after Combeferre. 

“Do you know what’s going to happen, you know, after-“

“After he’s released?” Combeferre’s mother supplied, a slight twinkle in her eye. “Ever since the first time Enjolras showed up at our doorstep with a black eye we’ve been in contact with the police, and you boys are nowhere near as subtle as you think. Enjolras’s dad just had a lot of power, and it was a long game of trying to catch him. If Enjolras consents, we’d be more than willing to have him.” 

“Are you superheroes?” he blurted out, just as Combeferre came rushing back down the stairs, The Blanket in his hands. 

“If there’s ever a time he’s going to want it, it’s now,” was all the explanation he gave, and they all drove to the hospital in silence, trying to ignore the fear. 

It was only hours later, when Combeferre’s parents were finally able to sneak Combeferre and Courfeyrac into Enjolras’s room after the police collected their medical evidence that Courfeyrac knew exactly why Combeferre had grabbed it. 

“He finally stopped waking up in a panic attack after we put it on the bed,” a nurse explained kindly to the two boys as they took a seat next to their friend. “You were smart for bringing it—he needs rest, and it’s seemed to stop him from waking up every twenty minutes.” But looking at Enjolras, Combeferre couldn’t feel anything but intense self-loathing (he could have fucking prevented this). Tubes and wires were surrounding the incredibly tiny teenager; Combeferre recognized the dialysis tubes from his summer job at the hospital (he assumed Enjolras’s kidneys had temporarily shut down in response to the sudden onslaught of IV liquids), as well as the artificial respirator that was ensuring his ribs healed without infection by forcing him to breathe regularly. 

“He’s going to be okay,” Courfeyrac whispered, but there were tears falling down his face. “It’s going to get better for him.” 

Combeferre glanced at Enjolras, before nodding at Courfeyrac, fighting the urge to throw up at the horrible sight that was one of his best friends. “We’re going to make sure it is.”

_three._

Fast forward another year, and Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac are sitting on the floor of the former two’s shared bedroom, surrounded by mountains of schoolwork. 

“Enjolras, may we borrow you for a moment?” Combeferre’s mother asks through a crack in the door, the exact tone of her voice hinting this wouldn’t be a fun conversation. Simply nodding, the blonde stood up, brushing his mop of curls out of his eyes and following her down to the kitchen without a word. 

“This is about English, isn’t it?” he asked hesitantly, quietly sitting down at the table, next to Combeferre’s father and across from his mother. When Enjolras decided to take the Combeferres up on their offer of living with them after he was released, he had also decided he wasn’t going to fuck this up, like he fucked everything else up. Because they had been unwaveringly kind throughout the entire (and rough adjustment), even in the first week when he was still struggling to find the motivation to move from under his mother’s blanket and had to fight the urge to throw up with every bite he ate. They’d driven him to physical therapy and the other kind of therapy and made sure he had the right medications and had helped him get back into school. It had been difficult (for both parties) but Enjolras knew they had never been anything but kind to him, even when he didn’t deserve it. 

“Your teacher just called the house,” Mr. Combeferre said, but his tone wasn’t angry or grave. It was calm, and that shocked Enjolras. He had been in a constant fight with his English teacher—he didn’t always understand the reading (a side-effect of being damn near illiterate) and his essays were terrible grammatically, which his teacher couldn’t stand—and it was only a matter of time. 

“He told me today that he would. I got another D on an essay, and he doesn’t think I’m trying at all,” Enjolras explained, looking down. That teacher kept pushing all of his buttons, never calling on him when he actually knew the answer, only when he didn’t, and practically announcing Enjolras’s marks in front of everyone, and he was sick of it. When he’d fought back, he’d gotten himself detention every time. 

“Did he say anything else to you?” Combeferre’s mother asked, and Enjolras was momentarily confused. Why weren’t they yelling? He’d epically fucked up. 

“I should seriously consider technical colleges, or not applying at all,” he responded. “Also that if I lash out one more time in class I’m going to be in detention instead of his class from now on.” 

“Why didn’t you tell us?” she asked, and now Enjolras was even more confused. He’d been the one to fuck up… if he’d just taken his meds on a consistent basis, if he’d learn how to goddamn read, maybe he wouldn’t be in this situation. 

“What?” was the only thing Enjolras could say. 

“Why didn’t you tell us your English teacher was an asshole?” Mr. Combeferre repeated, and Enjolras nearly choked on air.

“When he called, he went off on a rant where he said some awful things about you. Apparently he didn’t think you were dyslexic, and apart from he’s completely ignorant of learning disabilities and a general douche of a guy.” There was a twinge of humor in Mrs. Combeferre’s voice, but it mostly serious and concerned. 

“It’s kind of my fault for basically failing English,” Enjolras replied. “It’s not even advanced English, like Combeferre and Courfeyrac.” 

“No it’s not. That sorry excuse for a teacher should be aware that Shakespeare and the old epic poems are a struggle for students without dyslexia, and should be helping you learn it, not yelling at you.” Mrs. Combeferre’s placed her hand on Enjolras’s, and he just nodded, closing his eyes. 

“We’re going to have a meeting with him next week, at his recommendation, but we’re going to explain to him the situation, and we’re not going to let him continue treating you like this. And we’re going to get your mark up, if we need to edit each of your essays three times so be it,” Mr. Combeferre promised Enjolras, and he just nodded. “You can go back to Courfeyrac and Combeferre if you want.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras whispered, before silently racing back up the stairs. Before he entered the room, though, he grabbed The Blanket from the top shelf in the hallway closet, anxiety already swirling in his stomach. He had an English test tomorrow, and the meeting next week. This was his last chance to fix the fuck-up. Enjolras couldn’t handle it. So he just curled up on the floor of the room in The Blanket, breathing in its familiar scent to try to calm himself down. 

“Shit. What happened?” Combeferre asked immediately, recognizing The Blanket. 

“I have an English test tomorrow. And my teacher’s a douche who called the house,” Enjolras explained quietly, burying his face in the fabric. There was a beat of silence before Courfeyrac opened his mouth.

“Well then, I guess we better start learning _Hamlet._ And what’s a better way than watching _The Lion King_?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts would be lovely.


End file.
